


She Was Based on Your Mother

by AnnieBurns



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieBurns/pseuds/AnnieBurns
Summary: "It’s about power."
Relationships: Fleabag/Godmother
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to read this, so I guess I had to write it - even if it's only wee.
> 
> x  
> Annie

"Do you know I often thought it strange that of all my pieces, you chose to take her."

"Why?"

"She was based on your mother."

Fleabag's face fell.

"So nice to have her back in the house."

With that Godmother slinked from the room, leaving Fleabag alone with both a loss of maternity and a sudden propulsion to win the game once and for all. She pounced.

-

In the painting den, Godmother was arranging the sculpture back in amongst her artworks with an air of poise, something that both irritated and interested Flea. Confidence was always interesting.

"When you say-" Godmother was startled. "- _based,_ " Fleabag queried.

"Ah, yes," Godmother was visibly disappointed that her having had the last word - and a good one at that - was spoiled. "We were intimate friends, you must know."

Fleabag shuffled a little, momentarily losing the conviction that had her powering up the stairs. The cunt was back on her game, smiling with a wide-open mouth as if condescension needed a direct path out.

"Oh, she didn't tell you?"

"We weren't-" Fleabag muttered, "We didn't talk about that sort of thing."

Quickly, Godmother was in front of her, reaching an arm out in 'comfort' and pouting with pity.

"Well, we can't all be so close."

The bitchiness practically dripped from her soft grip on Fleabag's shoulder, and with a quick look at the spot then back to the woman's piercing eyes, Flea knew her next move. It was the only thing for it.

She stepped in with a well-rehearsed swift movement - one she had done many times before, but never like this. Her mouth was on Godmother's in a split-second, delicately kissing that passive, cunting smile into a surprised O. Godmother didn't move a muscle but instead became rigid.

Fleabag could have sworn there was a little reciprocation before a hand was on her other shoulder and she was moved back again, revealing a gobsmacked Godmother with an unreadable expression. Now _this_ was interesting.

"Oh sorry," Fleabag smirked with a flurry, stepping out of her grip and pausing in the doorway for a moment.

"Should've read the room."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For you
> 
> x

"She wants to paint you." 

Fleabag draped a leg over the side of the bath and sucked stewingly at her cigarette.

"Paint me?" She was a little more than startled at her father's comment. This was an unexpected move in their game of chess.

"Yes, darling," his voice breathed back over the phone line. "She's had a vision of her next piece and you're.. you know.. it's a-"

"Lucky me," another drag of ciggy, more impatiently this time. "She's only just painted me with Claire, can't she just take off that?"

"Well, darling, you know- it's not, you're not.. It's not a piece with, ah, you're not-"

"My face?"

"Yes."

"Use Claire's."

"That's not-.. she _couldn't,_ it's-"

Fucking hell, his stumbling was getting less endearing by the minute. Fleabag sunk deeper into the warm water, trying to relax herself.

"I'd love to but I have a lot on at the moment, with the cafe, and the-" she took another drag, "Lots. I've just lots."

"She's happy to work around you. If you can just be here at 4pm tomorrow, she'll work around you."

"I'm not-"

"She'll see you then." 

Fleabag heard whispers, a little faffing, more whispers, more faffing - and then the line went dead. There was a new game afoot and the rules felt a little different this side of The Statue Incident.

In giving it back, Flea had surrendered her only bargaining chip. What did she have now?

-

The incense hit Fleabag's nose with vigour - something rose-y and sandalwood-y. It gave the air thickness, heightened by the shadows of half-closed curtains and canvases draped about the windows. It wasn't dark but it was moody like a jazzed-up strip club, without the smell of sleaze intermixed. After half-expecting her godmother to enter with a crystal ball, she squinted to adjust to the light and found a figure slapping white paint about an easel. Next-door to her a brown leather chaise lounge was dressed with a black fur, the golden detailing sparkling with what little light there was.

"Hi."

"Darling," the woman turned and glided over to her, a tan-coloured kaftan following dutifully along behind.

They pecked either cheek and Godmother stayed close, her hand resting back on the same spot as the last time they'd seen each other. It wasn't as gentle.

"Thank you _so_ much for coming at _such_ short notice, I am so _lucky_ to have such an attentive and kind daughter," she flashed Flea a toothy grin and squeezed her shoulder before swiftly returning to the easel.

If that was the serve, Fleabag geared up for the spike.

"No problem. Dad said you needed a new muse."

Godmother flinched. There's point number one - just if we're keeping score.

"Yes, well," she recovered and gestured gracefully to the chaise, "As an artist, when there's so much content it's hard not to want to delve deeper."

Ace. No return. 1-1.

Fleabag stepped carefully toward the couch, hyperaware of the eyes on her. The leather was soft and cold against her legs requiring Flea to shuffle her dress down a little. The eyes were there. Interesting.

"This piece is about fury," Godmother was suddenly at her front, untucking Flea's hair from behind her ears and mussing it a little, flippantly as if to disregard their last close encounter. "And I know you're quite an angry person-"

"I'm not."

"Sorry-" she stepped back, reacting as if Flea had yelled the response. "Shouldn't say that to an angry person, should you?"

A grossly delighted giggle followed before Godmother's hands were back in her hair.

"Right, so; I want to really _find_ that anger - shouldn't be too hard!"

Another giggle. She'll bloody well find it if she keeps that up.

A-ha: then she won't. Flea composed herself internally as fingers worked to give her hair volume. If Godmother wanted anger, she would have meditative-level zen in a way she'd never seen before.

Godmother stopped, noticing her intense focus, and looked Flea directly in the eyes. It was a bad move. Flea could do eye contact until the cows came home, easy - boring even. But Godmother didn't have the power last they were here and the stare that was returned to her was languid, and uncaring, in a way that made her suddenly very still.

"What?" her goddaughter asked with a sultry swagger to her voice, as if a dare.

The woman's eyes narrowed as she tilted her head a little, trying to read the moment wholly. Flea was a little pissed, pursing her lips in response.

"Sometimes I think I understand you," Godmother almost whispered, a smile once again dressing her lips. "And then you go and do something new. Something... unexpected."

Flea was a little taken aback. They weren't explicit - that wasn't the game.

"And then other times, you look at me and I wonder if you mean it."

"Mean what?"

One of Godmother's hands came to grab Flea's jaw as she breathed in slowly;

"If you want to fuck me just do it."

Flea sighed in disbelief - this wasn't the plan, or the game. This wasn't it. Among the haze and the darkness and the closeness, she could have sworn it wasn't real - she felt drunk even though she was stone-cold sober. Her eyes shot to the woman's lips and by the time she had blinked back up, Godmother seemed unbearably closer.

"I don't," she affirmed very uncertainly.

"Don't you?" Godmother jerked Fleabag's chin closer, letting out a warm breath against it. "Could've fooled me."

As if to break the game for half-time, a knock drummed against the old wood of the door.

"Come in!" Godmother chirped, keeping grip of Flea until the last possible second, then straightening up and waltzing toward an already entering Father.

He'd brought the tea -

and Godmother had brought her A-game.

This was going to require a little more strategy than first expected.


	3. Chapter 3

Father had brought biscuits. Biscuits that his new wife smiled about, chuckled about and then hissed about, and promptly were removed from the room before Fleabag could pinch one for herself.

In the quick few moments that he was gone - whilst they both listened to him clumsily placing them on the hallway sideboard - Godmother sipped nonchalantly at her tea, fussing with the cup and saucer before placing it back down in front of them all, just as Father had rejoined them.

There was silence.

A grumble.

And then a little bit more silence.

Flea sipped at the tea she didn't really want purely as means to remove her responsibility to be the next to speak.

After a moment Father cleared his throat and the women looked up, both attentive for their own reasons, but when he moved to slap his chest and clear it a little more, they dazed back to their own cups.

"Right," he stood sharply, both his wife and daughter following. "I best- I wouldn't want to.. interrupt the art..."

He said it in the tone of a joke and so the others responded in kind, laughing and grinning as he backed out of the room with a mouse-like retreat.

As soon as they had giggled him away, Flea turned on her heels and leaned close to Godmother without a word. She smirked in reply, flashing a quick look at her goddaughter's lips before practically shoving her towards the chaise.

"Sit," she ordered.

Flea stumbled back to her spot as she felt her heartbeat rise with a twinge of fear.

Fear? Yes, fear... That's what she'll plead.

Godmother returned to the easel, her own cheeks a little flush but her tight jaw telling that this wasn't fear or - whatever. It was anger. How fun.

"How was the honeymoon?" the words trickled out of Flea's mouth. Godmother didn't look up. "Only Dad got weird when I asked about it.."

"It was lovely," she snapped. "Beaches, cocktails and time to really get inspired by the natural beauty of la spiaggia Italiana."

The accent she put on her Italian words would have pissed Flea off not long ago, but for some reason in this moment they made her heart beat a little harder. She forced her breathing languid to try to still it.

"Oh? Which cocktails?"

"Ah, trust you," Godmother's eyes found her goddaughter's and she squinted them a little. "Almost always a spritz. Usually Aperol, but we love a Hugo.”

Flea grinned back and nodded cheekily, “We love a Hugo.”

Godmother eyed her carefully. As Fleabag caught her gaze, they both settled back into the idea that they were alone again. They had almost ripped each other’s walls down brick by brick as if to finally expose themselves to one another, but they were both thorough builders and had reinstated them in a split second as they were intruded on by reality.

Flea’s mindless recollection had her opening her mouth without quite realising, eventually closing it with a bite of her lip. She saw the woman at the easel following her delicately, gaze darting from her lips to her cleavage to her big, sorrowful eyes.

“Let me-..” Godmother tapered off slowly as she stepped forward, landing against the couch and crouching before Flea.

The girl’s dewy glance followed her from below until they were eye-to-eye, Godmother placing a palm against Flea’s chest, feeling for her heartbeat. The thump was only growing faster and stronger, pulling Godmother’s conviction along with it. Maybe it didn’t feel like a game now, it just felt... warm.

A jolt hit the older woman and she took her moment, smashing her lips against her goddaughter’s with a shaky excitement she hadn’t felt for a long time, grabbing for her neck with a firm hand. Flea hadn’t the time to think and instead reciprocated, pulling at the woman’s tunic-y contraption in invitation and dragging them atop of her.

They pecked and moaned their way to lengthways along the chaise, Godmother supporting herself against the back and the other hand suddenly messing Flea’s hair with a vengeance. Kisses and bites and gropes were easily given, as if a champagne bottle that had been waiting years to finally pop.

Both women pulled back at the same time, at once remembering to breathe, and stared at each other - overwhelmed.

Flea was her usual: a horny, taunting look.

Godmother was.. different.

Flea couldn’t quite decipher it until it was too late and she could see her eyes had turned to regret.

“No, wait-“ was too late before her Godmother had pulled herself up and practically ran from the room, leaving a wet and flustered Flea in her wake.

Well, fuck.


End file.
